


the darling of a cultured home

by vegetas



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Boys Being Boys, Gen, Three Lts Sharing One Braincell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 00:32:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19262329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vegetas/pseuds/vegetas
Summary: when the captain returns early from his walk to erebus he comes upon his three lieutenants in what seems to be a suspiciously good mood.





	the darling of a cultured home

**Author's Note:**

> honestly, i have nothing to say for myself except that this is incredibly funny to me and i wanted to BE what i wished to see in this world - aka, these absolute dummies having a OK TIME for ten seconds and tom jopson breaking character as a result.
> 
> pardon any inaccuracies and she's unbeta'd as usual - i live and die by my own sword

> _ donned a collar once _ _  
>  _ _ with golden spikes. the darling of a cultured home.  _
> 
> _ somewhere between the harbor and the heights, uptown.  _
> 
>  
> 
> _ dog / weldon kees _

  
  


“How old are you again, John?” Little says suddenly, the stem of his pipe shuddering at the back of his teeth as he says it.   
  


They’ve drifted into companionable study after dinner, but Lieutenant Little, as he sometimes gets the unexpected and peculiar mood for, has taken the peace to his advantage. It’s a quirk picked up from being a boy with hardly anything to do during long country winters but pester his siblings and let himself be pestered in exchange. 

 

He remembers bored hours while snow fell and his mother took up her knitting, toeing at them with her slipper and scolding them as he and Dick and Fred rolled like puppies on the hearth rug. 

 

Unfortunately, he has no brothers to catch in the crook of his arm on board  _ Terror _ , nor sisters with curls to pull, and so he must make do with Irving.    
  
Irving prickles immediately at the far too familiar words, letting the book in his hand fall so the spine brushes against his thigh. 

  
“Little, Sir,” he says tightly, but Hodgson has already perked and is grinning at Edward from his post by the gallery windows. “ I  _ pray _ you are not starting this nonsense again.”    
  


“Eighteen? No, nineteen by now,” Edward gulls, his eyes narrowing in appraisal. He puffs, the smoke pluming from his mouth what he envisions coming out of John’s ears. 

  
“No more than twenty, certainly,” George chimes with his usual glibness, turning fully over his shoulder to meet Edward’s eye with a wink. 

 

Edward coughs to mask his barking laugh at the look on Irving’s face, for it is livid.  

  
“I am not so young,” he sputters, drawing himself up a bit in his chair and sounding much like the coal spitting in the belly of the stove beside him. “I am twenty six -,”

 

“You certain, John?” Edward parries in his baritone, tracking the thinness of his beard around his mouth with a raised brow.  “You’ve got a bit coming in yet,” he gestures at his own chin and if John were any other sort of man, and not the irreconcilably humble sort Edward knows him to be, he would certainly have hit the roof - perhaps lifted from his chair and gone right through the patent illuminator and out into the beat of snow against the deck.

 

Instead, John Irving sighs audibly and busies himself again with his book, making best attempts at meditatively ignoring his two older cohorts who have fallen to chuckling. 

 

The topic of his age, for whatever reason, is one that Edward exploits because John makes it unconscionably easy. 

 

He’s self conscious the way only men who are not yet thirty years old seem to be in their lines of work - a puerile little mode that George and Edward remember quite clearly. Then again, they are all owed their chance at punching down every so often as a rite of passage. Someday, sooner than John knows, he may find himself razzing some other fresh faced Lieutenant, one with an even weaker chin and even more to prove. 

 

Edward looks conspiratorially at Hodgson, still gnawing on his pipe, and George bites his cheek.   
  
“How is it, Edward, Sir,” George says with a clear of his throat. John buries himself in his text with a scowl. “That you tell a horse’s age? The teeth, isn’t it?”

 

Without another word Edward moves from his own seat and takes a few meandering steps as though he makes just to warm himself and peruse the library behind John’s head. He even goes so far as to lace his hands behind his back in case John should cast a suspicious eye with is pipe jutting from the corner of his mouth innocently. 

 

John, because he is only twenty-six and at times very stupid, does not even pretend to anticipate him. He is busy holding the book when Edward seizes his chin and shoulder and shoves his thumb between his teeth. 

 

“Easy lad, let’s have us a look -,” he says, the dual effort of holding the pipe steady and the jest making his voice a convincing gruff broom-sweep that their head groom used back home. George falls hopelessly into giggles behind him, laughing all the harder when Irving tries ineffectively swatting at the older lieutenant’s arms, the book flopping from his lap and onto the floor between boots. 

 

“Easy,” Edward goes on, smoke blowing around John’s face. He starts knickering at him like he really is no more than a startled colt. “Let old Pete have a spy and be sure my deal’s not raw -,”

 

When John finally manages to pry the older man off Edward lands his palm down on the flat of his head and musses his part into oblivion, laughing outright now and staggering back just as John goes for his middle with his sharp elbow.

 

“Haven’t you anything better to do,” Irving hisses, pulling his coat taught and raking his teeth against the flat of his tongue, soured by Edward’s blunt thumb wedging his molars apart. 

 

Edward laughs harder and wipes his hand on his breast, stamping his boot on the floor playfully.    
  
“Oh, you’re a very good sport, Johnny,” George groans, dabbing at his eye with his sleeve where mirthful tears have drummed up at John’s expense. He comes forward to put his hand on his shoulder, patting it kindly. “That was  _ much _ needed. I was beginning to wither with all this gloomy quiet!”

 

“I live to serve,” John glowers, glaring between them. “Perhaps you ought to put on one of your  _ songs _ , George -,”

 

It is then that the track rattles and the Captain ducks inside the Great Cabin, his face flushed with cold and his eyes stony when they light upon them. They were so caught up in the prank they didn’t hear his stomps down the companionway, nor the clamor of the other men making way for him as he came aboard. 

 

“Good evening, Captain!” George pipes, as though the Captain’s arrival is some serendipitous and happy occasion to expand the fun. Irving jumps to his feet to offer his chair, kicking the book a few inches, and Crozier eyes him and then the book before shaking his head and peeling his gloves from his hands and shoving them in his coat pocket. 

  
“Hardly good,” he grunts, snow still melting on his shoulders. He goes straight for his cabinet, pausing mid step before jerking his neck. “Plan on picking up my book, John?”

 

John blushes red and hinges at the waist and Edward teeths his pipe, now holding it loosely in his hand and glad the Captain is behind him now so he cannot see the devil written on his face as John scrambles to pick up the volume. 

 

He glances at George, who chews another laugh into his fist, eyes twinkling. 

 

“Captain.” 

 

This time they all look to the door, where Jopson has appeared in somewhat of a hurry, eyes bright.  “Sir, I’m terribly sorry, I did not expect you back quite yet and Mr. Genge did not let me know - I would have cleared the room ahead of you,” he says quickly. John scowls at the remark and George purses his lips, but Edward only looks into the stove, smoking in earnest now.

  
“No matter,” Crozier rasps, turning back to task. The decanter makes a  _ tink _ as he unstoppers it and sloshes the liquid into the glass.  “It appears I was in a hurry to get back, so the intrusion is mine.”

 

Jopson steps fully into the Great Cabin with a cursory nod to the other Lieutenants, moving quickly to Crozier’s side.   
  
“Sir, your coat, at least,” he says warmly, and Crozier gives a labored sigh, handing over his cap and gloves to satisfy him. Jopson doesn’t press further, disappearing into the Captain’s berth for half a second to put them wherever they belong. 

  
“Can I get you anything, Sir? Tea?” Jopson asks as he steps back into the Great Cabin proper. It’s a useless question, and obviously a convention. Crozier glances back at the Lieutenants who make a good show at continuing their recess. 

 

“Take it up with them,” he says picking up his glass for the first toss of whiskey down the back of his throat. “They were here first.”

 

“Certainly,” Jopson says primly, and Crozier fills his glass again. “Can I get you anything, gentlemen?” 

  
“I’ll have a spot of that port, Jopson, if you don’t mind,” George offers, forgetting whatever irritation he might have felt in favor of the moment. “What of you Edward? Fancy some?”

  
“Too sweet for my taste,” Crozier hears Little say, and he frowns a bit at the cadence of his voice. It’s a much warmer tone than usual. Usually when Crozier returns from his impotent trips to _Erebus_ he’s happy to find his first miserably stoic, which makes him feel all the more secure in his choices after visiting the neighboring ship. 

 

“Would you prefer a brandy?” Jopson says, and before Little can answer he is interrupted.

  
“Would you join me then, Edward?” Crozier finds the words falling out of his mouth before he has a chance to consider them. “Whiskey not too bitter?” 

 

There’s a bit of a pause and then, to his surprise, Little agrees.    
  
“Gladly, Sir. If you don’t mind the company.” 

 

“I don’t,” Crozier says, reaching down and pulling another glass which he sets heavily on the top of the side table, filling it several fingers tall with a smirk. His first does not usually partake, but today he is in a rare form and Crozier allows his irritation to sway into the territory of curiosity. Besides, he’s already feeling more at ease with the lubrication. 

 

“Right away then,” Crozier hears Jopson sound as he turns to walk the drink to Edward, holding it out at arm’s length. The man takes it, forgoing his pipe and their glasses  _ chink _ together and to Crozier’s amusement Little wastes no time, taking a wealthy gulp of it. 

  
“I am sorry,” Crozier says, and he dares himself to sound sincere. “For breaking up your evening. You’ve certainly earned it looking after things when I have to be pulled away.”

 

“Oh, not at all,” George insists, before Irving can open his mouth. Crozier watches it snap shut over Edward’s shoulder and his mouth twists. “It helps to pass the time till you’re safely back.”

 

Crozier winces a smile around another mouthful. 

 

“How fares the  _ Erebus _ ,” Little says, in his typical pitch. 

  
“Immobile,” Crozier says, dour. “As it is wont to be.”

 

Little eyes him knowingly over his glass, but there is not anything he can say to make anything of it.

 

“If I didn’t know better I would have said I’d walked into some sort of boy’s club,” Crozier says pointedly after a moment, shifting his gaze between the three of them and it’s Little, of the lot, that breathes a bit to keep the fiendish look from squirming over his features. 

  
“Ah,” Little shrugs. “Just quizzing John here. Putting him through his paces for you, Sir.”

 

“Mm,” Crozier hums, sensing that it was a bit more than that. He cocks an eyebrow and smacks his lips while John busies himself with the buttons on his jacket. “Best not to let the mind dull during these long months...”

 

“Jopson, that was marvelously quick lad!” George says delightedly. “And I see you’ve brought a friend!” 

  
Neptune pads into the room after the steward who sets the port and glass on the table and sets to filling it, smiling tightly in lieu of answering. The dog comes trotting straight to his master, snuffling him liberally and Crozier shakes his head, canting his leg out to shove him off. 

 

“He must have smelled me on you, Thomas,” he huffs. “Back you great beast fore’ you knock me down…,” 

 

“I think he’s lovesick,” Edward rumbles, bending to ruffle the dog’s ear with one hand and scratch roughly at the mane of shaggy dark hair around his head. His tail whaps the air and he whines in adoration at the attention. 

 

“Lovesick?” Irving blanches, speaking for the first time, a frown coming to his brow. 

 

“I see what you mean,” George titters, nodding as he takes the glass from Thomas who is conspicuously quiet. 

 

“He’s never far behind you, is he Jopson,” Edward continues, straightening up. 

 

“As much as I try to dissuade him,” Jopson quips, coming to Irving. “Port, Lieuteanant?” 

 

John mumbles something like  _ Thank you _ while Crozier studies his dog where he’s sitting at Little’s feet, peering at all of them with his sunken eyes and jowls dripping. 

 

“How old is Neptune, Captain?” 

 

“Two… or three,” Crozier shrugs, shaking his head at the oaf. “Too young to be useful and old enough to know better.”

  
“What’s that in dog’s years? Fourteen?”

 

“Twenty one if he’s three - goes by sevens,” George says.

  
“Puppy love, then,” Edward agrees. “You’re twenty-seven, aren’t you Jopson?”

  
“Twenty-eight now,” Jopson sighs, looking at the dog in question. “A bit old for him, I should think.” 

  
“Do you hear that, precious?” Edward coos, rubbing the dog’s wide forehead again. “You ought to go after our good John Irving. He’s only twenty six.”

 

George sputters into his port and Little straightens and drinks the rest of his whiskey, fighting the urge to look back and grin. 

 

“I’m sure any discerning dog would prefer a Lieutenant to a steward, but neither as much as a Captain,” Jopson is quick to say, sensing the slight tension. Neptune paws at Little’s trousers and Little relents another few pats, still holding the empty glass.

 

“You can have him,” Crozier says. “Do you hear me?” He points to the dog who flashes him a wink of his black eyes. “To the lowest bidder you go.” His dry mouth cracks into a smile. 

  
“I’m sure he keeps you very warm,” Little continues, looking up to Jopson who lets their eyes meet for a moment, the shadow of a dimple appearing in his cheek. “He’s a proper wolf blanket.” 

 

“Not quite enough room on my mattress, I'm afraid,” Jopson says, folding his hands behind his back. “But he seems perfectly happy to let me trip over him each morning.” 

 

Neptune, sensing he’s being spoken of trots to Thomas and bodies against his legs, listening to the steward  _ tsk _ and leaning against him, head tilted back and expression all love-eyed.

 

“So devoted,” George observes in a show of honest impressment. “My dog at home hardly gives a care for me. It’s small and terribly French and adores my wife and no one else. It’s a  _ Bichon Frise _ .”

 

“Fricassee?” Crozier says, having misheard, and at this the four of them are stunned into silence at the misstep. 

 

It’s Jopson who breaks the tension by covering his mouth with his cuff, biting back what comes out a whimper but is most certainly not. 

  
“Think that’s funny, eh?” Crozier croaks and to their astonishment Jopson’s eyes widen and then he tries to compose himself. 

  
“Apologies, Sir,” he says thinly, but his eyes are watering just a bit and he swallows unnaturally for the effort of not laughing. Neptune rumbles and yawns a whine, rubbing his head on Thomas’ knee.

  
“I suppose it does sound a lot like Fricassee,” George says, trying his best not to stammer.  “Truly, it looks a bit like one too…it’s all white you know -.”

 

“Well,then, at least you know it’s cooked well,” Edward says, his voice droll to the point that even Crozier is uncertain if he is being sincere or not. At this Jopson’s shoulders begin to shake up and down and he has to drop his chin to his chest and do his best to school his expression but no matter what he does he keeps breaking into a grin. 

 

“Like a proper gravy,” Crozier manages, tilting his glass and Little nods sagely, mouth curving into a smirk which gives him away.

  
“Yes, Sir,” he concedes, playing at straight and Jopson has to cover his eyes with his hand. 

 

“Well Hodgson,” Irving says from his corner. “How old is  _ your _ dog, then?”

 

George finds he can’t very well remember. 

 


End file.
